Fire and Death
by blue3ski
Summary: He is the instrument of Death. She will rise from the ashes. Neither can allow the other to win. When supernatural lucha libre mythology collides with Anastasia the Musical (with influences from the 1997 movie)
1. Chapter 1

_t began with General Vaganov's plan to bring down the Romanovs, the greatest lucha libre family in Russia. They had ruled the renowned fighting Palace in St Petersburg for 300 years, regularly inviting the best warriors from among lucha libre royalty to battle for glory, honor, and superiority. Desiring to seize power, General Vaganov struck a deal with the old gods, promising that if they granted him the ability and the opportunity to take the throne, he would find worthy vessels for them to inhibit from among the top fighters in the country._

 _Pleased with the offer, the gods agreed, and not long after, General Vaganov and his cohorts were able to ambush and kill the Romanovs. The family matriarch Maria Feodorovna, known in her heyday as the queen of lucha libre, escaped the massacre by being on tour in Paris at the time. Most of the royals went into hiding, afraid for their own lives._

 _Upon taking over, General Vaganov proceeded to open up the Palace to the public, promising that all could fight in it regardless of class and social standing because all fighters were now equal under the new regime, regardless of whether they came from a royal bloodline or not. In fact, he declared, any royals discovered in the Palace would most assuredly meet their end there._

 _The gods did not take long to demand their payment for orchestrating the successful coup. The first god to make a selection was Death herself, and she chose the general's own son, Gleb, who was only seventeen at the time. General Vaganov died only a short time later, and Death came down to rule the Palace next, wielding her new instrument._

 _Gleb was granted unnatural strength and endurance, and he soared through the ranks of the fighters, undefeated since his entry. He was given authority over the Palace as Death's own right-hand man, and he became known as the Man of a Thousand Deaths._

 _Ten years on, however, rumors started to swirl that the Romanovs had not been entirely wiped out. That there was one survivor – the youngest daughter Anastasia. Whose very name designated her as one who could wear the Phoenix mask that was her family's legacy and best Death._

 _But those were nothing but rumors…_

Gleb walks down the streets of the recently-renamed Leningrad, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He's cold, as he always is. Has been since the night he was given up to Death ten years ago.

The crowd that has gathered to gossip in the square quickly disperses at the sight of the man in the Death mask. As he passes by, he can see the fear in their eyes, and he takes grim satisfaction in it.

It is good for them to know fear. Especially the fear of death.

The Palace looms in the distance. Once a grand structure that came to life especially at night, it is now dark and its exterior in disrepair – imposing, frightening to all who come near. His dark mistress wants it that way – she says it is how she weeds out the weaklings at the door.

He doesn't question her. He never does.

He slows down as he gets close to the entrance, seeing the group of fighters huddled against the winds of the Russian winter. A few more steps, and they will see him. He's not in the mood to be stared at some more, so he stops to wait until they've gone in.

Not far away, a young woman with red-gold hair is sweeping the street. She wears a long, shabby coat, and her head is bowed. Normally, Gleb doesn't notice specific people unless they're fighting him – otherwise, their faces blur into everyone else's. But he finds himself straining to get a better look as his skin prickles in some strange call.

As he edges forward, his boot lands on an errant tree branch, snapping it into the snow with a loud, wet crunch.

"Oh!" the girl cries out, falling back and dropping her broom. She looks around her, visibly terrified.

Gleb generally doesn't care. But something compels him to step forward, to offer aid. He kneels to be at eye level with her and extends a hand.

"It was a tree branch, comrade," he explains. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

She regards him with wide blue eyes for a few seconds, and he sees himself reflected in them. A hulking figure, everything but his eyes and mouth hidden behind a black mask. A reminder that yes, she does have something to fear.

He begins to pull his hand back, but before he does, she has taken it.

Heat rushes through his veins, and his insides feel as though they are burning. He wants to let go, but he also can't.

He feels so very alive.

He doesn't even realize that they're both on their feet already – his head is swimming from the rush. But she lets go of his hand, and the warmth vanishes just as quickly as it came. He feels even colder than he was before.

She's trembling as well as she takes her broom, and he reaches out to steady her, noting for the first time that she is beautiful. Before he knows it, he has blurted out an invitation to tea to warm her up. To warm them both, if he can stay in her vicinity for just a little while longer.

A dim part of him insists that he needs to be back in the Palace, but the part of him that last lived at seventeen surges to the surface, giddy with a schoolboy's excitement, and insists that a few minutes won't matter. The fighting doesn't start until the sun has set.

But she jerks away when he touches her arm through her coat and scurries off, stammering out a thank you.

"What's your hurry?" he asks, trying to mask his disappointment as the warmth fades from his fingertips.

"I can't lose this job. They're not easy to come by." She hesitates and softens a little, turning back to look at him. "But thank you."

No one understands duty better than Gleb does, so he doesn't argue further. But perhaps when it's a better time…

"I'm here every day!" he calls out to her departing figure.

He only hopes she is.

Anya stares down at her hand, wondering.

She is rarely cold, even in the winter. She's always had a high body temperature – it has taken her through ten years of living on the streets with nothing to her name.

In fact, not even a name. She's only Anya because some nurses decided she would be. It's as if she was just unceremoniously dumped into the world at seventeen.

The only hints she has of her past are flashes of fire, screams, and wet crunching sounds. She's always been especially reactive to the latter, and it's caused her a fair share of embarrassment when she has an attack in front of a crowd. And so she's grateful for the kindness of the fighter who had stopped to help.

The chill she felt upon taking his hand is strange, though. It's as though the heat that always keeps her warm was sucked away by a vacuum.

She circles back around to the Palace. With night falling, she can hear it coming to life inside, and her skin prickles. But she doesn't know whether she wants to fight or to flee. The Palace always makes her feel that way.

It's not that she doesn't know how to fight. Russia has never been a safe place for young women, particularly young women crossing the country alone, and thankfully, she's always had a propensity for physical combat. Enough to keep her alive and unharmed for most part, until she finds what she's been looking for.

Identity. Family. Home.

Love.

She dreams of meeting someone – she just doesn't know who or where to find them. She dreams about narrow, dimly-lit hallways ending in a brightly-lit room. She dreams of a beautiful façade, decorated in gold like a beacon in the dark sky.

She looks up, and the real sky overhead has gone the color of ink. She should go. The later it gets, the more dangerous it is to be hanging around a hall of fighters. Purist spectators and competitors alike don't take kindly to stragglers.

As she turns her back to the Palace and makes her way back to the Neva River, she wonders if the man in the black mask is fighting tonight. If he is, she wishes him luck.

"Vlad, I've been thinking about Anastasia Romanov."

Vladimir Popov turns away from the action in the Palace's ring to look at his protégé with exasperation. "Not you too, Dmitry."

The young man grins at him, a calculating glint in his eye.

It has been ten years since the event that had shattered Vlad's carefully constructed identity as lucha libre royalty. He'd had enough skill to pass himself off as one, and he had been living the good life until the Romanovs were murdered by their own general. He'd had to flee as General Vaganov initiated a bloodthirsty campaign against the royals – whispers said anyone he caught was sacrificed to the old gods. Only quick thinking and the street-smart Dmitry's timely interference had saved Vlad from this purging.

In return, Vlad had decided to apply his knowledge to training Dmitry in proper lucha libre combat. The boy had grown up in the streets, orphaned when the Palace had claimed his father many years ago. Getting into the fighting arena – and bringing it down – was part of a revenge plot to spit in the face of the authority who had allowed that to happen. With Dmitry now close to being ready, they had started covertly attending Palace fights to scope out the competition and perhaps get an in.

Unfortunately, training and basic necessities do not come cheap, and they've been running low on funds.

"Her grandmother is willing to pay anyone who can bring Anastasia back," Dmitry whispers urgently. "Imagine if we're the ones who do."

"Nice plan. Except for the part where _there is no Anastasia_ ," Vlad points out.

"We'll find a girl who can play the part," Dmitry continues as raucous cheers surround them with the conclusion of a fight. "You can teach her what to say, how to fight like a Romanov."

His mind whirs with a new idea. "Then we take her to the Palace, and you enter us together. The queen is sure to notice her on that stage, and I get to exact my vengeance."

Vlad looks at Dmitry, pensive. His student's eyes blaze with confidence and purpose – Dmitry knows what he wants to do, and he knows he's damn good at it. It's why he's a quick learner, and why he will become a star in the Palace in due time. But it also makes Vlad afraid sometimes. He's seen the best warriors in the country fight, and he never wants Dmitry to underestimate them.

Especially the Man of a Thousand Deaths.

Gleb Vaganov comes out for the last bout of the night, and the atmosphere perceptibly changes. The cheers and jeers seem to shrivel up and die before the Palace's champion. The few hushed murmurs voice their early condolences for his poor, hapless opponent, and Dmitry leans forward with interest to study the match.

Not that there's much to watch. The other man barely puts up a fight, and one Flatliner later, Dmitry sighs in disappointment as he falls back against the back of his seat.

"They need me in there," he sighs. "Someone needs to give him a challenge."

They file out the dingy door with the rest of the spectators, their chatter breaking the eerie silence. It's past midnight, and most of Russia is in slumber.

Dmitry and Vlad head in the direction of home, currently the old, abandoned estate of Count Yusupov. As they pass a side street near the Neva, they hear the sounds of a scuffle. Exchanging concerned looks, they hurry over to see what's happening.

A young woman with gold hair is being accosted by two men in masks. To Vlad's surprise, she doesn't look frightened – her eyes are narrowed in concentration as she drops the broom she's holding and throws a punch at one of her attackers. It connects solidly, and he staggers backward, clearly thrown off guard. The other charges, and she grabs his arm, twisting it as she delivers a kick to the back of his knees.

His companion is getting to his feet, however, and he does not seem pleased now. Dmitry jumps into the fray, grasping the masked man by the back of his shirt before he gets any ideas. He sends him crashing to the ground with a massive yank.

The girl gives no visible indication that she has noticed Dmitry or Vlad, but Vlad sees her relax slightly now that she has backup. She chops her attacker hard in the chest, making him double over. As Dmitry's opponent stands, Dmitry leaps up and deals a vicious spinning kick to his face, felling him.

The attackers start backing away, realizing they're outmatched, and bolt. Vlad bends and picks up her fallen broom.

"Are you hurt?" Vlad asks the girl as he hands it to her.

She shakes her head and takes the broom. "Thank you," she says. She turns to Dmitry. "That was gentlemanly of you."

Dmitry is staring at her with an odd expression on his face, his brow furrowed like he's watching Vlad demonstrate a complicated move.

"Are you a fighter?" Dmitry blurts out. Vlad blinks – he can't mean –

"Not really, but I'll be fine. I can defend myself for most part," she replies. "Again, thank you." She starts to move past Vlad.

Dmitry gestures wildly at her. He does mean that.

To be fair, this girl would be easy to train…she has got basic skills already. And Vlad could start over. Live the good life once more once Maria Feodorovna pays up.

He puts a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Would you like to be one?"

She stops and turns. "What?"

"I'm Vladimir Popov. This is Dmitry. We're looking for the lost princess of Russian lucha libre, Anastasia Romanov," he explains.

Dmitry chimes in. "You fight an awful lot like her."

She snorts. "That's very kind of you, but I think you've got the wrong girl."

"I've seen many female fighters, and not one of them fights like her the way you do," Vlad remarks. "No one spots lucha libre royalty like Vlad Popov!"

She shakes her head. "I've been living on the streets since I can remember. I don't have any family – let alone family that's lucha libre royalty. Heaven knows I've been looking for the past ten years."

Dmitry frowns as he gives her a good look. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven, but I don't see how that's relevant –"

"You've been looking for your family since you were seventeen?" Vlad's senses are beginning to tingle.

"That's when they found me." She fiddles with the handle of her broom. "They said I was lying there on the side of a road, like I'd been beaten up."

Dmitry's eyebrows shoot up and he meets Vlad's eyes.

"Why were you beaten up, child?" Vlad ventures.

"I don't know. I don't remember anything before that."

Jackpot.

"We're heading for the Palace," he continues smoothly as Dmitry comes up to stand beside him. "The biggest stage in all Russia. If anyone wants to be found…it's there that they can be found."

He extends his hand. "Come with us."


	2. Chapter 2

"No," Anya replies, annoyed.

Honestly, do they think she was born yesterday? She's grateful for their help, but she's not going to go wandering off with strange men just because they said nice things to her.

She shrugs the older man's – Vladimir's – hand from her shoulder and stalks off. At least she starts to.

"Could you live with knowing you never even tried?" asks the other one – Dmitry. She stops short, despite herself.

"'Cause I'm pretty sure I couldn't. But that's me," he continues casually. "No pressure. You do you. We're going to the Palace anyway, with or without you. Who knows, we might find the real Anastasia along the way and we'll get to reunite her with her grandmother."

Anya tightens her grip on her broom.

Dmitry saunters past and claps Vladimir on the shoulder. "Come on, Vlad, let's go. She's not interested, and we've got a long day ahead." He nods to her. "Best of the luck on the streets, kid."

Vlad follows. He looks confused, but he seems to trust his friend. "Stay safe, comrade –?"

"Anya," she supplies hesitantly.

Vlad nods. "Stay safe, Anya."

As he hurries to catch up to Dmitry, Anya looks down at the broom in her hands.

She has worked everywhere she can possibly work to survive. She has walked halfway across the country to try to get to…somewhere she can find and be found. And she hasn't had anything to show for all those years. She's still hidden in the crush of people that make up Russia.

Will she end up dying like this, sweeping streets and washing dishes for the rest of her life?

The Palace is the most well-known arena in the country. Everyone knows it – royal or revolutionary, resident or visitor. It means something, even though she doesn't know what it is.

Does she really have anything left to lose?

"Wait!" she calls to the men's backs.

"Yeah?" Dmitry calls back without turning around. He continues whispering furiously to Vlad.

"Do you honestly think I could be Anastasia?" she asks. She bites her lip, trying not to sound too…hopeful.

Vlad turns and smiles kindly. "I train fighters, Anya. I lived and fought with the royalty – please don't repeat that part to anyone, by the way. When I was watching you earlier, I saw a native skill in you that I've seen only in them. With a little seasoning, I don't see why you couldn't be her."

"I suppose there's no reason why I couldn't, if I don't remember anything," Anya concedes. "I'm a girl who's missing a family, and out there, there's a grandmother missing a granddaughter. If I'm not her, she'll know right away, won't she?"

"And if we're right and you are Anastasia, then you'll have your identity and a family back!" Vlad finishes, beaming.

Anya takes a deep breath. "I'm in." She holds her hand out, and Vlad shakes it.

"Knew you'd see it my way," Dmitry drawls as he finally turns around.

Anya rolls her eyes as he shakes her hand next. "I didn't see it your way – I saw it mine."

"Whatever you say." He's practically preening.

The three of them fall into step. "This training," Anya ventures. "How much –"

Vlad waves her off. "Dmitry has never paid me a ruble so I don't see why you should."

"Hey!" Dmitry protests.

At least it's not a money scam. She doesn't have much to spare on a lie.

"We're heading to the old Yusupov estate," Vlad continues. "Yourself, Anya?"

She swallows and looks away. "The river."

"Oh, where do you stay?"

"Under the bridge." Her cheeks flush.

The smirk on Dmitry's face vanishes, and he and Vlad exchange concerned looks.

"In this weather?" Dmitry inquires quietly.

"We have room," Vlad offers. "And one more bag of lentils. You should stay with us."

"We're training there anyway," Dmitry adds. "Might as well make it easy on yourself."

Anya considers. A proper roof over her head is a rare thing to find in St Petersburg. And she's learned to sleep with one eye open, if they think of trying anything.

"Alright," she agrees. "Thank you."

When they enter the abandoned property, Anya looks around and exhales in relief. It's a little rundown, but is very clearly a training facility. There's an old, but reasonably clean ring dominating the center of the room, and workout equipment is scattered on the floor. Vlad orders Dmitry to put them away while he goes off to find a bag of lentils for her to sleep on for the night. Dmitry grumbles as he scurries around replacing the equipment properly.

"Here we go!" Vlad gasps out, huffing and puffing as he drags a heavy sack behind him. He drops it in front of Dmitry and doubles over, trying to steady his breathing.

"I'm fine," he wheezes when Anya makes a move to check on him, concerned.

"He's fine," Dmitry echoes as he moves the sack into place with little effort. "You're all set up, kid. Sleep tight."

He pulls Vlad to his feet. "We'll be in the next room if you need anything."

Anya nods and watches them go. Once she's alone, she walks over to the ring and runs a hand over the rough surface of the mat. Something nags at her, something she feels she should know, something she yearns to remember...

Glancing around to make sure Vlad and Dmitry aren't around, she steps in between the ropes and into the ring.

The air suddenly feels charged, and the hair on her arms stand on end. She looks up, and she can see silhouettes leaping from the top turnbuckles, hear the phantom sounds of bodies hitting the mat.

"Could it be?" she whispers to herself. Her question bounces off the walls.

She stands there for a few more seconds, then rolls back out onto the floor in a motion that feels absolutely natural. She lies down on the bag of lentils, marvelling at how things have suddenly changed all in one night.

Her makeshift bed is surprisingly comfortable – she supposes anything feels like heaven after months of sleeping on cold, hard ground. Despite her excitement, it's not long before her eyelids grow heavy and she fades into dreams of masks and fire.

The back of the Palace is dark and silent as a tomb. The audience is long gone, and the fighters have gone home.

Gleb has the prone body of that night's opponent over his shoulder. The thump of his boots on the floor is the only sound in the entire arena – not even the wind dares whistle where Death reigns.

He vaguely wonders what his opponent – his victim – looks like. Gleb hasn't seen his own face in ten years. A fighter's mask represents his identity - his very head. And Gleb's mistress never wants him to forget that he is the face of death, nothing more. So when his mask is off, mirrors are not his friend.

He stops outside his mistress's office door. The interior is dim, and he can hear nothing, which means she has not yet returned. Gleb shifts the weight on his shoulder, and continues on to his own quarters inside the Palace to wait until she calls for him.

Gleb dumps his opponent on the floor, checking to make sure he remains unconscious. Satisfied, he picks up a box of matches from the table nearby and strikes one to light a candle. He moves to shake the flame out as it spreads down the matchstick, but he finds himself mesmerized by the flickering fire.

It reminds him of the heat he felt today.

He watches as the flame turns the wood to black ash. But as soon as it touches his skin, it splutters and dies.

He didn't even feel a thing. He closes his eyes as the face of the woman he met on the street that afternoon swims to the forefront of his mind. He wonders how different their meeting might have gone if she could see his face. He remembers the feel of her hand in his - he can't recall the warmth anymore, but he does the gentleness. It's a new, but not unpleasant experience.

"Gleb," the deep voice of his mistress intones, tearing into Gleb's musings. Quickly, he blows the candle out and hoists his victim back onto his shoulder.

As he approaches the office, he can see the windows emitting a red glow. He knocks twice, then slowly pushes the old wooden door open.

Red candles line the walls of the room, washing it in flickering yellow light. They look like earthly ones do, but candles from the underworld are different. They give off no heat, and will never burn down, arrested in time like the one who lit them.

His mistress sits behind the desk, boots up on the surface. Her face is at first hidden in shadow, but when she looks up and trains her gaze on him, her eyes are almond-shaped discs of glittering pure black, deep and soulless.

"Where is he?" she demands.

Gleb drops the body onto the table and steps back. His opponent is only just beginning to stir, and when he looks up, Gleb's mistress reaches out and removes the man's mask to expose his true face. On instinct, he moves to cover it, but she catches his wrists, smiling.

The fighter never has a chance to fully recover. Death swoops down and clamps her mouth over his. He quivers as the life is sucked from him in pulses of electricity – first violently, and then feebly until he no longer moves. Until he's nothing but bones.

Gleb watches, impassive.

She withdraws, her eyes now glowing yellow, and tugs at the skull until it comes free from the spine. She kicks the rest of the skeleton aside, and returns to her chair.

"Throne" would probably be the more accurate term, however. The chair is massive – lined by the skulls of Gleb's many victims over the past ten years. She wedges the new skull into a gap along the sides of the chair, inspecting her handiwork to make sure the new piece of decoration has fitted perfectly.

She sits back down, as though nothing has happened. Her attention focuses completely on Gleb now, and he can feel her stare piercing him to the core. He fidgets a little, hoping she can't detect any hint of fire on him.

"Something is different," she pronounces.

He doesn't dare move. Does he smell of smoke? Does he burn, to her? He's never asked, but he doesn't find it likely that Death will approve of life.

"I heard whispers," she continues. "Beats. Pulses. They say life is returning to the Palace."

He stays quiet, trying to shove the memory of the street sweeper from his mind. He's not unconvinced that Death can't read his thoughts.

" _Life._ " She bites out the word with loathing as she taps her fingers on the skulls decorating the arm of the chair. "Ridiculous. I stamped that out years ago." She glances at him. "Your father made sure of that."

Gleb fights to remain unmoved. He can still hear the breaking of bones in his ears…the screams that faded into silence.

 _That night, his father told him to stay home with his mother. But overly curious, Gleb snuck out._

 _His father had talked a long time of revolution, of returning to the common man control of the one fighting promotion in Russia. It was unfair, his father often said, that one family alone made the decisions on who was worthy to perform, on who was considered the best in the nation. He turned his nose up at the notion of lucha libre talent being in one's blood – anyone could learn to fight if the need called for it, and show a propensity for the sport. All were equal within that ring._

 _Gleb, his father proudly pronounced, was the living example of that. And Gleb was proud to be._

 _And so he watched as his father led the Romanovs into the rundown warehouse across the street that had been converted into a practice arena for the Romanovs' underlings. The last person to enter was a teenage girl with red-gold hair, her head held high._

 _He ran over, wondering why his father was bringing the Romanovs here. And how he had gotten them to leave their nice, shiny Palace._

 _Gleb knew the warehouse well, having often gone there from his childhood. At first, it had been his playground, and then it became his training ground. He found the spot in the wall where a hole had been carved out by him specifically for the purpose of eavesdropping, and he pressed his eye against it._

 _His father's friends were waiting inside, and Gleb's stomach twisted. He wasn't entirely certain what was about to take place, but based on what he had overheard his father say before about what the fate of the Romanovs would be should he find his opportunity, Gleb could only imagine that it would not be pleasant._

 _A female figure stood among them, all in black, her face concealed by a curtain of black hair._

 _Gleb heard his father's voice, mixed with that of the Romanov patriarch's. The murmurs of the women and the children buzzed in the background, incomprehensible but clearly frightened._

 _Gleb began to turn away, but the woman in black looked up and stared him full in the face. Gleb backed up quickly, barely able to stop himself from crying out at the sight of the pure black orbs she had for eyes._

 _She smiled._

 _Gleb wanted to escape, to go back home where he should be and pretend he had seen nothing. But it was as if he had been rooted where he stood, making him powerless to run when the beating began. He could only clamp his hands over his ears and shut his eyes._

 _He lost himself that night. When the sounds of death died down, Gleb Vaganov had become a very different boy._

 _He made it home just before his father arrived at the door. Hidden in his room, Gleb listened to his mother's horrified whispers to see her husband covered in blood, listened to the tired pronouncement of victory._

 _A few nights later, his father came home, face ashen, and asked Gleb what he would do for the sake of a new Russia. Trembling and still shaken by what he had seen, Gleb had asked what his father wanted of him. His father simply told Gleb to follow him, and he did._

 _All the way to a place beyond the grave._

Death watches him with cold eyes. "You are his son. Be proud of what he accomplished." She stands. "Maria Feodorovna thinks the Phoenix will rise again, does she? Then you will do what your father did and kill her hope. No Romanov will come within a yard of my Palace."

Gleb nods with conviction. He will do as she says, and protect the integrity of the Palace. In his father's name.

She inclines her head toward the door. "You're dismissed."

As Gleb walks out, the wheels in his head are starting to turn. He will listen to the fighters at the door now. He will trace the rumors. And he will stamp out any hint of a Romanov revival.

As the Man of a Thousand Deaths takes over, the memory of the fire fades from Gleb Vaganov's mind.


End file.
